


Baiting the Bull

by benrumo



Series: Inquisitor Cesare Lavellan Desperately Tries Not to Ruin Everything [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, spoilers for up to The Demands of the Qun
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2014-12-01
Packaged: 2018-02-27 16:55:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2700368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benrumo/pseuds/benrumo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor talks to the Iron Bull after the events at Storm's Coast.</p><p>(Works in series are not sequential, just same-universe.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baiting the Bull

“Could I have a minute, Bull?” you ask the moment you’re sure that he’s got as little to say today as he ever has since the dreadnaught exploded.

“Sure thing, boss,” he says without moving. “Can we have it out here or do we gotta go somewhere a little more secluded?”

“Preferably somewhere where I can hear myself think.”

The way the Iron Bull pulls himself up out of his chair, you’d never believe he was the same man who just yesterday threw a Venatori Gladiator half way across Thedas. You aren’t sure if it’s some form of passive-aggressive protest or if the weight of his decision is really wearing that heavily on him. You almost hope it’s the former.

He follows you silently out of the pub and over towards the quartermaster’s lodgings, near where Cassandra normally spars. This time of night, the area’s deserted. Well, as deserted as Skyhold gets these days. You’re still a stone’s throw from the nearest ears (if Bull’s doing the stone throwing), and the bard’s voice carries well through the pub’s thin walls. But you feel there’s a good chance that Leiliana’s spies aren’t paying that close of attention to this dark little corner of the castle.

“What’s this about?” Bull asks, finally irritated out of his silence by your hesitation.

“I didn’t know what to say after the Storm Coast,” you finally say, “but I do now.”

“Look boss, what’s done is done. No use dragging it up again,” he says, turning to leave.

“I disagree,” you say as politely as you can manage given that you’re basically ordering him to stay and listen to what you have to say. “Look, would you agree that I know the… gods, how many of us are there now? Eleven? Sounds right, doesn’t it? Eleven of you rather well?”

The look the Iron Bull gives you drives you back to your point.

“I’ll never understand what it is to live under the Qun. But as to the rest, you may not see it now but you’re in good company.”

“Meaning?” Bull asks tersely.

“As diverse as our backgrounds are, it’s easy to overlook how much we have in common. Hear me out, please,” you urge.

You rake a hand through your hair, still unsure how to really begin without losing him entirely.

“What you did may have put you at odds with the Qun, but the decision you made is the same decision that brought all of us here together,” you explain. “Well, most of us. Look at our friends, Bull. Look at Dorian: a Tevinter magister fighting a demon the whole of Orlais and Ferelden are happy to blame him for just by right of his birth. Cullen, Cassandra, and Leiliana all faced excommunication the moment they declared for the Inquisition. And as for me… As far as my people were concerned, I should have taken this anchor back to the Dalish and saved the world for us. Maybe we could have reclaimed our homeland, reestablished a Dalish nation with the power and influence the anchor brings.”

“Ha! I would have liked to see that. A few hundred thousand elves against the whole of Thedas.”

“I imagine we’d come up with a smarter plan with that. Instead of an Inquisition, maybe there could have been a Dalish-run allegiance. No Herald of Andraste, just a… I don’t really know, come to think of it. I’m sure they’d dredge up some ancient title for me. It certainly would have been a challenge achieving the same level of organization and influence the Inquisition has, but it wouldn’t be impossible. This could have gone differently, is all I’m saying. So differently. I didn’t have to hedge my lot with a bunch of shems whose first impression of me was as that knife-ear who murdered the beloved divine.”

“Are you approaching a point here? ‘Cause I’d rather not spend all night whining over shoulda-coulda’s.”

“Right. Here’s my point: The Qun will survive without you. The Qunari will survive without you. Everything you dedicated yourself to, everything you believe in, will survive without you.”

“This isn’t much of a pep-talk,” Bull growls.

You raise your voice to power over his temper.

“But who in all of Thedas gives a damn about Krem except for you? Or Rocky, or any of them? The Qun doesn’t need your devotion to survive, but they do! Who else do they have, Bull? Who else cares about them? You told me their stories. What are they, any of them, without you?”

“I know that!” Bull roars. “I turned my back on everything I swore to uphold _because_ I knew I had a responsibility to those men. _My_ men. You don’t have to come here all high and mighty and tell me what it means to have men depending you. I knew what was at stake.”

“You didn’t give up the Qun because you owed them your loyalty, you gave up the Qun because here, in this one instance, you knew you were the only one who would ever do right by them,” you desperately try to explain. “Don’t you think that matters? You think rejecting the Qun means rejecting your life’s purpose, but this is what the Inquisition is. This is what we’ve always been, a ragtag bunch of good people who saw pain and destruction happening right in front of us and knew we had to do something about it no matter what the cost. We abandoned the Chantry. We abandoned our nations and our race and our homes because we couldn’t stand idly by while bad things happened to people who deserved better.”

“You cannot compare your patchwork army to the might of the Qun!” he says, stepping forward and making full use of his impressive girth. “Your forces are pathetic. Your warden won’t go unarmed even in the castle for fear of what your evil magister will do once his back is turned. Your Seeker accuses your thief of lining her pockets with Inquisition gold and half your so-called friends are using your power and influence for her own ends. And you, the highest and mightiest of us all, you spend your days solving petty squabbles and making _friends_ of your forces. And _worse_. The Qun would never allow such flagrant waste, even from its highest.”

“No, I can’t compare, and I’m not trying to,” you say, doing your best to stand your ground though you barely stand above his belt. “I’m not saying the Qun was wrong, I’m saying is what you did for them no one else could have. And you know that because you know what each and every one of them came from. They need the Iron Bull more than the Qunari will ever need another Hassrath. Maybe that’s not as important as serving a nation, but the Qun will find another Hassrath to serve in your place. You are the only one who can ever be the Iron Bull, and… that damn well **matters**!”

You hope that got your point across, because you’re not sure how else to say it. You don’t know how to make any of them see what you see in them.

“You do not understand what it means to abandon the Qun,” he sneers, voice steely and low.

“No,” you reply, rather sure you have failed and eager to cut your losses and run. “I don’t. But your friends understand better than you might believe what it means to turn your back on your home in order to do what is right. I know your decisions are your own and you have to live with that, but you’re an outcast among outcasts here.”

The Iron Bull is not happy with you at all. You are beginning to wonder why you thought this was better than him sulking quietly in the corner of the pub.

“I just wanted to remind you of that,” you finish, doing a very good impression of a person who isn’t the least bit threatened.

“That’s it. I’m done listening.”

Bull picks up a beaten wooden shield left on the ground, perhaps from where he trained with Krem earlier in the day. You do not like where this is going.

“This is the part where you run, _Herald_ ,” he warns, and you’re off like a light.

Oh gods, where can you possibly run? You’ve got the speed to keep ahead of him, but nowhere to go. You fly up the stairs to the castle-proper, but you really don’t fancy the thought of getting cornered among all those stone walls. You ice the stairs underneath Bull’s feet, sending him crashing down like the ton of bricks he’s made of. Good. That ought to give you a second to think.

While you’re frantically plotting your way out of this mess, the heads start poking out to get a good gander at what all this commotion is about.

“Haha, you show that old bull, Cezzy!” Sera yells from her alcove roughly the same time that Krem shouts “Captain!”

“I was just trying to be helpful!” you scream as a single very menacing eye whips up to meet yours.

“And I’m just trying to return the favor!”

“Inquisitor!” Cassandra grabs you from behind. “What is all this?”

She’s got her sword and shield, but nothing else on her person excluding a loose shift. You are going to catch hell from her if you live through this, you just know it.

“No, no Cassandra,” you quickly urge her back in the castle. “It’s fine, really. Just a misunderstanding.”

Bull bashes the ice off the closest stair with the bottom of his shield. You aren’t sure exactly where he’s going with that, but you have a feeling it’s not good for you.

“We’re talking it out,” you manage by way of explanation before Bull _jumps_ from the foot of the stairs to the one he’d cleared of ice, and from there you know it’s only one bold jump to where you are. Thinking more with your feet than your head, you jump down onto the sapling near the steps. It’s the only option you have, as you’d rather not draw more people out of their beds by taking this indoors.

“Get back here you fennec-y little bastard!” Bull roars as you practically destroy the sapling in your decent. You make it down more or less in one piece, however, which is more than you know Bull will be able to say if he chooses either the stairs or your path.

You dive down through the archway and towards the bridge. You are rapidly running out of escape routes. You have to do something before the entirety of Skyhold steps in to break this up. You survey your options. Cassandra stands on the stairs, eyes wide and sword raised. You hear the slick scraping of ice and assume that Bull found a way down the stairs. Several people are shouting, none of them distinct. Crowds are forming to both sides, forcing you further towards the bridge. You freeze the stairs again, though you suspect that trick will only work once. Bull just smiles when he sees the ice and slides down the smooth edge in _style_.

“End of the line, Inquisitor,” Bull jeers. “That is, unless you’re planning on letting a damn sell sword run you out of your own castle.”

“Sorry, but this ends here.”

“I want to see that fancy sword of yours,” Bull says, “just one more time before we laugh you off as a coward.”

You’ve got your spirit hilt with you, of course. Captain’s orders. A true knight-enchanter is never without their blade, blah blah something-or-the-other. Vivienne gifted you with a fashionable (for Orlais anyway) make-shift scabbard that makes toting it around as easy as remembering to put on your pants when you get out of bed.

“I’m not going to pull a blade on you when you’re unarmed.”

“Even with just this shield, I’m better armed than I need to be to deal with a whelp like you.”

You summon the blade from the Fade.

“It’s far sharper than a real blade, you know.”

“Far lighter too. That’s the only reason your scrawny little mage arms are able to wield a real weapon.”

Can’t exactly argue with that, can you?

“Go get ‘m, Captain! Show that uppity bastard what real strength is!” Krem calls from over the side of the wall. How he got up there you can only imagine.

Well, you think, that rather settles things, doesn’t it? If Krem’s not worried…

You drive ahead with a forward slash, slow and well-telegraphed. You probably should have known better than to go easy on him. As a reward for your mercy, you’re delivered a heavy blow to the shoulder with Bull’s shield. You’re knocked off your feet, but not for long. If there’s one thing a childhood among the Dalish has taught you, it’s how to get up when you fall down. Granted, most of your falling was from out of trees, but the principle’s the same.

The wonderful thing about the spirit blade is that the blade part is only there when you want it to be. Good thing too, or you would have probably chopped your own head off as you rolled out of the way of Bull’s next attack, a wide swing that would have knocked you straight across the face.

You only have one chance to get this right. Mess it up and he’ll see you coming next time. Can you do it?

You take the chance and let loose the spell. Without your staff you have less control. At first the ice forming around Bull’s feet looks too thin. He’ll break it with a single shake of his thunderous feet. You correct as quickly as you can. The ice forms thicker, solid, but not too thick. Thank the gods.

Bull tugs at his feet and finds more success than you would have expected. He frees himself from the ground but not the ice. The whole of it, man and ice, come lurching away from the earth. You think he might topple to the ground like a wooden doll, but he miraculously manages to regain his balance. While you’re watching slackjawed, he takes the opportunity to swing at your face again.

You move instinctively, drawing your blade from the Fate before you remember who you’re fighting against. The blade breaks through the weak shield like paper. You know you’ve cut him, but you’re not sure how deeply. Your blade flickers out and in an instant he is on top of you. You crash to the ground, your head jarring against the stone-cold ground of Skyhold.

“Cease this madness!” you hear Cassandra scream over the chaos.

There’s a knife at your throat, barely more than a kitchen blade.

“Yield?”

“Yield,” you agree readily.

“You made me bleed,” the Iron Bull says.

The knife’s still at your throat and Bull still doesn’t look very happy. You thought maybe a fight would settle things after you saw Krem cheering. Krem wouldn’t want you dead, right? He’d know whether or not this was just a fight-it-out kind of thing, wouldn’t he? Gods, but you are terrible at this.

“I respect that in a leader.”

Bull pulls back but not off of you. He holds out his hand like he’s going to help you up. You don’t see how he’s going to manage that when he’s got an ice block in place of his feet, but you give him your hand nevertheless. You quickly regret this decision when he draws the blade across your arm.

You try to pull your arm back, but he’s got too good a grip on you. He shoves his bleeding arm against yours.

“I was your sell sword. I would have bled for your money,” he says, “but now… We bleed together.”

You’re not entirely sure what that means. Is he breaking the contract?

“Boys!” he roars over the growing crowd. “I’d like to introduce you to our newest member!”

Bull rolls off you just enough to thrust your bleeding hands in the air.

“Let’s hear it for Cesare!” Krem shouts, and the Chargers all cheer with him.

“Don’t worry, boss,” Bull says. “It’s an honorary position.”

“I count myself very honored, then,” you say, still somewhat dazed by the turn of events. Also, you’ve never been one to handle blood loss well.

The Chargers catch up quickly, but not before Cassandra pushes her way through the throng. She has you pulled off to a healer before Bull and his Chargers can drag you into the pub. You rush the process along with a bit of your own magic. By the time you get to the pub, the whole of Skyhold seems to be in on the celebration. Well, the less-sensible part of Skyhold, anyway. Those with more sense, as Cassandra readily tells you, are back off to bed and you’re to be delivered straight to the dungeons if you cause another scene. This is not, you are informed, the way an Inquisitor should be behaving.

You wake up some unfeasible amount of time later with an aching head and a fuzzy tongue. The first thing you see is Dorian there waiting with a tankard of water.

“I had a suspicion that you weren’t quite as used to these kinds of fetes as I am,” he says gently, but with a teasing smile.

“I can barely even remember the fete in question.”

“Ah, my suspicious are confirmed, then. Drink the water. It helps.”

“I seem to recall you keeping up rather well,” you grouse as you force the water down.

“Yes, but you see, the difference is I am rather used to conducting myself gracefully with a head full of hammers. Poor little forest elf, did you ever even come across alcohol before joining the Inquisition?”

“This is hardly the first time I’ve been drunk, Dorian. We’re nomads, not hermits.”

“Believe me when I say you could never have had as much ready access to alcohol as either a Magister's eldest son or a Qunari sell sword.”

“I cede the point,” you groan. “So, what? You just woke up after all that as cheery as you are?”

“Oh, far from it. I just woke up well before you did. As hard as it may be to imagine, even I can’t look this good without trying.”

“I feel somewhat cheated. Not only can I not remember what you’re like when you’re drunk, I also slept through you groggy and disheveled.”

“You say the most sentimental things,” he says, trying and failing for disparaging.

“Oh really? You’d have me believe that you’re not enjoying this?”

“Perhaps,” he grins, “but unlike you I wouldn’t say it. Now go get in the bath before I remember just how much you stink. I’ll see if I can procure us some new sheets while you’re at it.”

You try to follow his advice but find yourself quickly reminded of the rather large gash in your arm. Well, you assume it’s rather large. That’s how it feels. The actual size of the thing is hidden under a mass of loose, dirty bandages.

Dorian notices your grimace and grabs your arm.

“Almost forgot about that. Let’s assess the damage, shall we?”

He starts pulling off the bandages without waiting for your reply. The sight underneath is far from pretty. It will likely scar, and when it does it will be the second largest of your (admittedly very small) collection to date.

“Matching scars. How very… quaint,” Dorian comments dryly. “I’d keep those stitches dry, if I was you.”

“I take it you don’t approve.”

“Of your own ally stabbing you? I should think not. This is what you get for making friends with bloodthirsty savages.”

“To be fair, I did draw first blood.”

“Hm,” Dorian mutters noncommittally as he drops your arm. Apparently your sins are not to be acknowledged. “At least it wasn’t your face. We should get you some fresh bandages along with those sheets.”

You’ve just lowered yourself in the warm water and started to relax when Dorian chimes in again.

“By the by,” he starts, and you’re fairly certain his smile only increases as you damn near jump out of your skin. “I’m not sure how much you remember about last night, but you and that hulking mass had a rather touching moment towards the quieter end of the evening. One I found myself unfortunately dragged into.”

Dorian’s not entirely discrete about the discrete looks he keeps giving you while casually lounging in the doorway.

“He said, and I quote as best I can manage given the circumstances, that if you could manage to give even a _useless Vint_ like me a purpose,” Dorian practically hisses the words, “then maybe there’s hope for life outside the Qun after all. And he might have said some other nonsense after that about something an old Qunari once told him. I wasn’t really paying attention, honestly. Sera was doing something rather unexpected with a pair of daggers and an Orleisan mask.”

You are almost entirely sure that he’s making that last bit up.

“Yes, yes, with the pleased smiling. You have once again managed to turn a terrible situation into a… what do you say down here? A nug’s ear? Is that how it goes? You have the most terrible sayings, by the way. Not sure if I’ve mentioned that yet.”

“I don’t think I’ve heard that one yet, actually. And here I thought you were running out of complaints about the south.”

That remark finally moves Dorian from the doorway. He places his hands on the rim of the tub and leans forward. You stop breathing for just a moment, which is probably for the best, seeing as how your breath is still quite terrible.

“Are you going to sit there looking smug or are you going to let me wash your hair?” he says, voice at that same damn pitch which has been the ruin of you since that very first night.

“I don’t see why the two are mutually exclusive,” you breathe.

Oh, but this can only end well.


End file.
